Reading Standards for Literature > Themes, Development, and Summarizing Stories (CCSS.RL.8.2) Practice Test

(1) The river's edge was a line my father trusted, even though it slid a little each spring. He kept old survey maps in a bread box, folded like napkins, the ink faded to the color of tea. The maps showed where the bank used to be, as if memory could pin the water down.

(2) Our hives sat on cinder blocks near the willow grove. The bees knew the path to the blossoms the way my father knew the path to the shed. He said bees disliked being moved. He said a hive had to learn a place like a person learned a street.

(3) That year, the snowmelt came early, and the river frothed brown. Geese stitched the sky in slanting V's, and the air had the wet-metal smell that meant the ground was loosening. I ran a finger along the closest map line and said, "It's closer than last year." My father lifted a jar of last summer's honey to the window. "Willow gives it that green tint," he said. "Wouldn't taste the same up on the hill."

(4) Rain threaded the afternoon and then thickened, beating a flat drum on the porch roof. The cinder blocks darkened. The grass turned to slick ropes. I lay awake listening to the river rearranging itself in the dark, a knocking that wasn't the door but made me want to answer.

(5) Near midnight, a branch came down with a crack like a plate breaking. I stepped into my boots and moved to the window. The willow's lowest leaves skimmed water. "Dad," I said, and he was already standing, tying his coat. For a moment he looked at the bread box, as if the maps might speak.

(6) We went out with headlamps and straps, our breath making small clouds. The bees were drowsy with cold, the boxes heavier than they seemed in daylight. Together we heaved the hives, one by one, up the slope toward the hill. Mud sucked at our boots; the straps cut our palms. The river, swollen past the old lines, flicked foam at our heels, as if surprised we were leaving.

(7) In the morning, the grove stood half in water, willows shouldering the flood. On the hill, the hives made new shadows. Weeks later, the first jars were lighter in color, almost straw. My father held one up and didn't mention willow. "Tastes like clover," he said, and took another sip, as if learning the street by walking it again.

1 A dark community center. A single candle on a folding table. Outside, rain hisses like static. 2 AUNT RAE: Hold the base, Jodie. The wax will run if it leans. 3 JODIE: I've got it. If I could get one bar, I could at least post about this. "Historic blackout. Featuring candle." 4 AUNT RAE: Featuring soup, if the stove cools too much. Stir it. 5 JODIE: (peering at phone) It keeps trying to refresh. Like a goldfish learning a square bowl. 6 AUNT RAE: Hush. Hear that? The building's sighing. When the lights go, the walls remember how to breathe. 7 JODIE: That's not a thing. 8 AUNT RAE: Maybe not. But listen anyway. 9 (A beat. The room settles. Someone laughs in the hallway. A pot lid rattles.) 10 JODIE: It's weirdly loud when there's "nothing." 11 AUNT RAE: It leaves room. Your grandfather used to play chess here by this window—well, by that window, where the soda machine is now. 12 JODIE: I didn't know he came here. 13 AUNT RAE: King vs. time. He'd stare so long I thought the pieces might grow roots. 14 JODIE: (phone glows) If I could post that story, people would comment. "Wow." "So vintage." 15 AUNT RAE: Or you could just ask me how he played. 16 JODIE: How did he play? 17 AUNT RAE: Patient. He'd sacrifice a knight if it opened a path. Folks said he was stubborn. I say he was listening for the move under the noise. 18 (Rain sharpens for a moment, then softens.) 19 JODIE: I guess posts are like sparks. Bright, then gone. 20 AUNT RAE: Sparks have their uses. Fire starts somewhere. 21 JODIE: (thumb hovering) If I can't post, does the moment count? 22 AUNT RAE: Does your breath count if you don't see it in winter air? 23 (The candle gutters. Jodie cups her hand to shield it.) 24 JODIE: Okay, okay. 25 AUNT RAE: There you go. You just saved a flame. 26 JODIE: I can at least save my battery. 27 (She locks the phone and slips it into her jacket.) 28 JODIE: Tell me about the knight thing again. 29 AUNT RAE: He gave up what looked shiny to protect what mattered in the long run. 30 (Down the hall, someone claps. The soup pot stops rattling.) 31 JODIE: Maybe listening is like that. 32 AUNT RAE: Maybe it is.